


We're Not Right

by Rehfan



Series: White Ladder [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Hurt, LOTS more angst, M/M, More angst, Non-Graphic Violence, Self-Destruction, Sherlock hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns that using his head can be painful to his heart. Sherlock learns that using his heart is just plain painful.</p><p> </p><p>The arc of a relationship. Two people who are meant to be with one another will always find one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's Head

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [我们犯了错](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325929) by [Pattypancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pattypancake/pseuds/Pattypancake)



> This is a Sherlock Johnlock fanfic that is based on the music of David Gray's album, White Ladder. Each chapter is named after each track in sequence and is headed with a quote from that particular song.
> 
> The album was released in 1999, but it's one of my favorite albums and it is available for download on iTunes. Please download it. You won't regret it.
> 
> Part Four is based on this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=As4J3qNopNo

“Can’t tell the bottle from the mountain top  
No we’re not right.”

 

Morning light streamed onto John’s face. The pain of it was unbearable. He squinted at the glare, holding out a hand to shield his eyes. Nausea followed the pain and John turned over in his bed. That was a mistake. The nausea doubled and when John attempted to head to the toilet, his feet got tangled in the bed sheets. He fell flat on his face.

Pain on pain on pain. Oh dear sweet weeping Jesus this was horrible. Please God, just get me to the toilet and let me turn myself inside out.

He extricated himself from the sheets, reached the toilet, and vomited violently.

Never again, he swore. Never again would he ever attempt to solve his problems through drink. Harry went down that road, never to return. Why was he so eager to follow in her footsteps when he saw what happened with her? No. This had to end.

He lay on the cool tile of the bathroom floor and took stock of what his life had become over the past ten months or so. He was in love with a man who refused to love him back because it was a “disadvantage”. Because of that he was falling apart inside. He had blown up at him the last time they spoke, saying things he didn’t really mean. Did he really want Sherlock to die in a house fire? Jesus, who says that to anyone?

Regret filled his heart at the recollection. That wasn’t fair of him. And poor Sherlock. Poor Sherlock -- who had never had a real relationship in his life -- was being subjected to unmitigated hatred from the one person he had trusted. Possibly the only person he had trusted in his lifetime. John was his only friend. And John was hateful to him because John had the foolish notion that a man like Sherlock could be loved. Stupid fool.

Fortunately for John, fate had an emotional outlet in store for him. More and more every day, John found he was falling in love with a woman that he saw as a sort of savior from his own life, one who wanted a life with him. She was everything that Sherlock was not, emotionally speaking. Why was he hesitating about moving in with Mary? Why was he questioning it? This should have been the easiest decision of his life.

But somehow he still had this loyalty to Sherlock. There was this undeniable connection there. It was almost palpable. But it was rotten at the root. Nothing could grow from it. He really needed to be with Mary. She offered a future, a chance at leading a normal life not involving gunplay. It was the right decision. It was the healthy decision. And yet…It broke John’s heart to even consider it.

John sat up slowly and took a breath. If he wasn’t careful, he’d catch his death on the floor. It was winter already in the city. He looked up at the window of the bathroom through squinted eyes. Frost covered the glass. Despite being muted through the crystals, the sunlight was awfully bright. Wait…Where were the curtains?

He went into his bedroom. The curtains were gone from there too.

What in the name of…?

Opening his door was like experiencing a fresh new hell. A wall of sound hit him like a fist to the face. There was never such a clanging racket going on. Mrs. Hudson was standing just outside the kitchen and yelling at Sherlock over the radio. Rock music was blaring from it and judging by his lack of response, Sherlock was pointedly ignoring Mrs. Hudson.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” shouted Mrs. Hudson. “John probably has the hangover from you-know-where and you’re making all kinds of noise! And what happened to all my curtains?”

“They wanted washing, Mrs. Hudson,” replied Sherlock, his voice raised in order to be heard over the screaming guitar. “Be a good girl and check on their progress in the washer downstairs, would you?”

“I’m not your maid, Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Or your mother,” she added as she turned away and headed back downstairs.

John made his way carefully down the stairs. He had to do it carefully or else his head would dismember itself from the rest of his body – or so it felt. He looked into the kitchen to see Sherlock slamming cookie sheets down on the kitchen table, fwap, fwap, fwap…

At the risk of causing his brain to commit mutiny and leap out of his ears, John shouted, “Sherlock!”

Sherlock stopped and stared at his flat mate. John looked like hell warmed over. The dark circles under his eyes in his slightly puffy face made him look years older than he was. Part of Sherlock regretted what he had done with the window treatments -- but only a part. The rest of him wanted John gone. It would be easier if John would just hate him like everyone else did.

“John! Glad you’re awake!” said Sherlock with a wide grin. That wasn’t his regular grin, thought John. He’s up to something.

“What in hell are you doing?” begged John. His eyes were tearing up. Between the unmerciful sunlight streaming into the sitting room, the banging of the cookie sheets, and the cacophony of the Van Halen solo guitar riff, his senses had had enough intake for twelve weeks. He wanted to vomit again.

“Experiment, John,” said Sherlock. “You are the test subject. To determine what stimuli would aggravate your current condition. I should imagine that acute dehydration caused by your copious alcohol consumption on the night previous would be quite painful. We shall have to establish a pain scale. Too bad about not knowing how much you drank or what type of alcohol you ingested. No matter. We shall just have to crack on.” And with that, he slammed a cookie sheet on the table with a rather impressive THWACK.

John placed his hands over his ears. All he could do was stare at Sherlock in abject horror. He had experienced a certain amount of verbal abuse at this man’s hands – even emotional neglect, but never had Sherlock been out-and-out cruel. It was one thing for Sherlock to treat him off-handedly; that was the man’s nature. It was another thing entirely for Sherlock to kick John when he was obviously down. This was just pure meanness.

John never felt more betrayed in his life.

Mary. I need to be with Mary. Mary wouldn’t do such things. My God, please. I need to get to Mary.

“How’s the pain level so far? Scale of one to ten,” said Sherlock coolly.

John looked at that impassive, clinical, porcelain face and something inside him snapped. He walked straight up to Sherlock and punched him in the face. Sherlock hit the floor and looked up at John, his face blank. John went to the radio, turned it off, and unplugged it for good measure, ripping the cord from the wall. He then walked to the kitchen table and took both cookie sheets, walked to the front windows of 221B, opened one of them and threw both sheets out onto the street.

Sherlock had regained his feet when John had come back into the kitchen. John hit him again. Sherlock hit the floor again and this time his face held fear. John stood over him, enraged. Glaring at him and in a low, clear voice he rumbled, “So help me god, Sherlock… you’ve done a lot of crap things before but you’ve never... So help me… if you speak to me… you LOOK at me… you maniac… and I’ll fucking kill you.”

With fists clenched at his sides, John turned on his heel and went back to his bedroom.

 

~080~

 

They met in a café across town that same afternoon. Mary was waiting for him when John got there.

“What is so horrible that it takes me a tube ride and two taxis to get here?” asked Mary, clearly alarmed at John’s request for caution. “Are you and Sherlock being pursued by dangerous criminals?”

“No,” said John, taking a seat after looking cautiously around. “I just didn’t want Sherlock to follow me here. I needed privacy to talk to you. I didn’t want him making up some fool excuse to interrupt us.”

“Whatever’s the matter?” said Mary.

John took a deep breath. “How soon can I move in?”

Mary looked at John shocked. She had been hinting at him for a few weeks for him to move in, but honestly, she was only half kidding. She hated sharing Sherlock with him, and moving him into her place would be much more convenient for her, but she didn’t want to push that onto John so soon in their relationship. She told him so.

“I know it’s soon,” agreed John. “But I just can’t take Sherlock any more. He’s gone off the deep end with me and I’m afraid that if I don’t make a clean break now I’ll not want to be around him at all.”

“So you still plan on going off on cases with him then?” she asked.

“Well, of course. I’m the only thing standing between him and his own self-destruction. I can’t just abandon him,” said John. “If I do leave him completely, I’ll feel awful every day I’m away. I’m afraid he’s just a part of who I am. It would be like trying to rip my own arm off. I couldn’t do it.”

“But you still want to live with me,” Mary asked cautiously.

“Yes,” John replied. “I think just a bit of separation would be alright. He’s a big boy. He can handle himself. He’ll be fine without me there constantly. I’ll still drop by and see that he’s eating something every now and again when we don’t have a case, but otherwise, I’m all yours.”

Mary smiled. She thought a moment and said, “I think if you give me a week, I can move you in with very little trouble. My landlord is a wonderful old gent, but he’ll want notice of a week at least before you start living there. He’s a bit old-fashioned like that. It’s just… as long as you’re sure, John.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he said. There was a moment of silence between them. They barely registered the fact that they were seated in quite a busy restaurant. For that moment, there was a shared look exchanged between them. It spoke volumes about their mutual concern over the detective and how he would handle this news.

“A week then,” said John slowly. That should be enough time to break the news officially to Sherlock and enough time for him to adjust to the change. John was sure Sherlock would understand his decision in time. After all, he was used to unilateral decision-making. The only difference was that this time, it was John making the big decisions, not Sherlock.

“Alright,” John said at last. “I’ll be moving in with you a week from today.” He looked at her earnestly and said, “Mary, I can’t wait.”

“Me too,” Mary smiled.

Already John’s heart felt lighter. This was the right thing to do. Life with Mary would be so much easier. She was not half as complex as Sherlock. It would be a welcome change to his life. And Sherlock would be fine. Wouldn’t he?

Deep in John’s gut something twisted. He pushed it down and away. Nothing would stop his move out of 221B Baker Street. Not even his own protective instincts towards his best friend. Sherlock would live. It would all be fine.

As he left the café, John turned the corner to find a cab and noticed that he was limping.


	2. Sherlock's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns that using his head can be painful to his heart. Sherlock learns that using his heart is just plain painful.
> 
>  
> 
> The arc of a relationship. Two people who are meant to be with one another will always find one another.

“Now I'm weak and  
My head is sore and I  
Feel like I can't go on no more”

 

“Things with Ms. Morstan are getting serious, Sherlock,” said Mycroft as he sat in John’s chair. He crossed his legs and turned his head to the side. Sherlock found it annoying. He found most anything Mycroft did annoying.

“He’s informed me that he’s moving out in a week’s time. But I expect that somehow you already knew that. He’s upstairs… packing,” said Sherlock. What has he got to pack? All those damn jumpers, probably. Sherlock thought of the uniform in the garment bag and a wave of sadness swept over him. Mycroft saw it before Sherlock could check himself.

“I’ll miss him too, you know,” said Mycroft.

“What? Why?” said Sherlock. He hated that his brother could read him like a book.

“I’ll miss having someone trustworthy to watch over you,” Mycroft said.

“He wasn’t my babysitter, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, throwing himself on the sofa. “Talking of, you can leave anytime. I don’t need you here. Nor do I need John. I really don’t need anyone. The only thing I need is another case to solve and for that I can go to Lestrade.”

“You really do love him, don’t you?” said Mycroft quietly.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft from over his shoulder. “That will be all, Mycroft.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You can go.” A Holmes didn’t talk about his emotions. Ever. Mummy had taught both of them that. It was a lesson that had proved useful throughout his life and Sherlock was not about to stop following it now. Vaguely he wondered why Mycroft was abandoning the cardinal rule of being a Holmes.

“Because despite all Mummy has taught us, some rules need to be bent sometimes. I worry about you, Sherlock. I am your brother and even if you choose not to remember it, I was the one you used to lean on when you were a boy. I feel a certain… obligation to you,” said Mycroft.

“Obligation?” said Sherlock, his face scrunched up in confusion. He shook his head in disbelief and turned his back on his brother. As far as Sherlock was concerned, Mycroft’s brotherly obligations ended the moment he left the Holmes estate for the big bright world of government service.

John descended the stairs. He nodded to Mycroft, glanced at Sherlock, and headed to the kitchen to retrieve his spare tea mug. He took it from one of the higher shelves and looked into it. It was stained with something unidentifiable. Obviously it had been used for something experimental and placed back on the shelf in the hopes that John wouldn’t notice. He looked at Sherlock, let out a long-suffering sigh and put the cup back on the shelf. John mounted the stairs again.

As soon as John’s bedroom door closed Mycroft began again: “Relationships are difficult, Sherlock. You must put forth an effort toward them in order for them to last. You really should have put more effort toward consideration of John: his feelings, his things, his person. He is a rather special human being, as human beings go, what with him capable of putting up with you for so long.” After a pause Mycroft added: “It’s also my understanding that even though he plans on moving out, he still plans on assisting you with your… cases. He really is a selfless sort. Either that, or he’s entirely masochistic.”

“That’s enough, Mycroft,” said Sherlock.

“Come to think of it, it’s been a while since he’s seen his therapist. Perhaps he is mad. He obviously does need the help. I don’t suppose he’s convinced himself that he’s made a good decision for himself by getting out of here. After all, he’s limping again. Or hadn’t you noticed?” said Mycroft. And with that, Mycroft stood and left 221 B.

 

~080~

 

Anger, resentment, hatred: these are things that Sherlock could understand. The way that people stared at him would slowly change as he revealed personal and intimate details about their lives. They would be amazed at first, then shocked, embarrassed, and eventually – inevitably – angry. He was used to it. He had seen it his whole life. There was something about being able to make these mundane people horribly angry that was satisfying to Sherlock. There was power in being able to cow someone. And the resulting anger when he had finally hit home with these sub-par human beings was expected because they were all dullards. And dullards only had primal responses to embarrassment. 

Except John. He was the only one in Sherlock’s lifetime of deducing people that responded by being fascinated. John actually had the unmitigated gall to be charmed by it. Why was that his response and not the anger he got from everyone else? Sherlock only angered John when he was insensitive to others. So John understood the mundane knee-jerk reaction of the weak-minded, but he wasn’t the same way. Why was that? What was it about Doctor John Watson, ex-Army medical officer, that made him so damn special?

Sherlock lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling of the sitting room of 221B, listening to the faint sounds of the kitchen clock. John had gone round to Mary’s flat with a few boxes of things and he was alone. The solitude was hateful.

Sherlock closed his eyes and searched his proverbial heart. He didn’t do this often, preferring that the instrument with which he made his living remained a finely tuned instrument, uncluttered by the detritus of his emotions. But every once in a great while, he let go because it usually reminded himself as to why he kept such a tight leash on his emotions. A reminder would be a good thing right about now.

Everything Sherlock’s heart had to say, his brain didn’t want to hear. It told him of what a fool he was being. It told him that Mycroft was right in saying that there was no one like John Watson. It told him how unnecessarily cruel he had been to John. It told Sherlock that he was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his face. It was wet. He had cried again. What was happening? It’s not as if he would never see John again, he reasoned. John isn’t dead, just moving. And why was he listening to Mycroft in the first place when the only real relationship Mycroft had ever had was between himself and a fork? No, this would not do.

Sherlock showered and changed. Feeling more like himself, he left the flat and headed to New Scotland Yard.

Lestrade had no current cases for him, but offered him some of the more interesting cold cases. Sherlock accepted them with a slightly dissatisfied sniff. He then went to Bart’s. Molly didn’t have anything for him either, but gave him a bag of hands to sort and experiment on. He would have to be satisfied with that.

What he needed was a case; something to really sink his teeth into, something that he could throw himself into. The cold cases and the hands would have to suffice. But they weren’t enough. Sherlock knew it.

Returning home, Sherlock found John in the kitchen. He was placing the kettle on the hob. Just like he had always done. Just like he had done that morning after the first time John and he had sex. That night was wonderful. That night was the culmination of so much. That night was the first time Sherlock had seen the full extent of John’s capacity for love and affection. A small noise came from the back of Sherlock’s throat and John turned.

“Tea?” John offered.

Sherlock blinked back tears and cleared his throat. “No thank you, John.” He placed the hands in the refrigerator and went to his room.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock spent the next six days up to his elbows in cold cases and flesh experiments. They kept him distracted, but not entirely. Sherlock was still forced to bear witness to John moving boxes of his things out excruciatingly slowly, one or two at a time. Every day that went by, Sherlock noticed John’s limp getting more and more pronounced. By the sixth day, Mary is assisting with his move. After all, it’s tough for John to carry things with one arm while balancing with a cane.

All too soon, it comes down to this: As of the next morning, John’s official residence will no longer be 221B Baker Street.

Something inside of Sherlock has been twisting around all day. He’s been trying to ignore it, to push it down, but it won’t go away. As he hears the front door of 221B closing behind John and Mary, he suddenly feels sick. Sherlock runs for the toilet and heaves, but he hasn’t eaten in a day and a half and there’s nothing there except pain and bile.

Sherlock lay on the bathroom floor and allowed himself with a moan of despair. He needs drugs. He needs a seven percent solution. He needs for the pain to go away. He needs a bloody case!

Tell the truth, his heart whispers. He needs John. Sweet, soft, fuckable John. He needs to feel the warmth of him against his body instead of the cold bathroom floor. He needs his breath on his neck. He needs the sound of his orgasms. He needs his silly, stupid, mundane conversation. He needs the feel of his jumpers against his chest. He needs his cups of tea. He needs his friend. He needs… he needs… he needs…

 

~080~

 

Sherlock never took the tube, but his brain has driven him almost to madness. His earlier nausea was due to him not having enough air to breathe. Yes, that was the answer.

He took himself for a walk through Regent’s Park when the idea struck him that he could keep busy by watching and deducing others. Perhaps he would stumble on a big case. Perhaps if by watching humanity he could save himself the trouble of being one of them. Lately, he was beginning to feel as though his brains were going dull and that was unacceptable. Sherlock blamed his proverbial heart for that.

He rode the tube for hours, getting off at different stations to change trains here and there, sometimes on a whim, sometimes because he saw someone of relative interest. Every now and again he would approach the object of his deductions and advise them accordingly. 

He saw it as the most humanitarian he had been in his life. John might actually have been proud of his actions. The people he approached were usually astonished and most were perturbed, but no one ever called him amazing. No one said he was fascinating. He saved one woman the trouble of telling her husband she was having an affair. Fortunately, Sherlock told her, her husband was also cheating, so all things being equal… It was rather unfortunate that the husband in question was actually seated next to her at the time of his revelations.

Sherlock barely missed getting his collarbone broken. The black eye, broken ribs, and bruises over his chest and face that he did receive would take up to several weeks to heal. The altercation was picked up on the tube station cameras and the next thing Sherlock knew Lestrade was there giving him a stern lecture about what was appropriate behavior on the tube and what was not as he sat in the back of the ambulance. Sherlock didn’t let the ambulance people touch him. They were not his doctor.

Lestrade brought Sherlock home to a very disappointed John.

“This changes nothing, Sherlock,” John said, his lips set in a firm line. “I’m still leaving in the morning.”

Sherlock looked at him through his one good eye. The whole left side of Sherlock’s face was swollen and bruised and John was carefully cleaning a cut at his eyebrow. This was probably the last time he would ever be this close to John again.

Despite his mouth being a swollen mess, he still wanted to ask John for one last kiss goodbye. He wanted to inhale his scent one last time and taste his mouth, feel the soft velvet of his tongue, the pressure and heat of his body. Somewhere deep in his heart he ached for John’s touch just one last time.

But Sherlock never said a word.


End file.
